


A Party at Denerim Palace

by Lypreila



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Deepstalkers, Frilly Cakes, Gen, King Alistair, Lili gets pissed, Party, Queen Cousland, cousland - Freeform, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lypreila/pseuds/Lypreila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Lilibet Cousland doesn't want to attend her husbands name day celebration.  It's just that she doesn't want to be around all the boring nobles and petitioners that inevitably come with the party.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, there's frilly cakes and rampaging deepstalkers to make things more interesting.  Who said royal parties had to be boring?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Party at Denerim Palace

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to continue to suck at summaries. But, yeah. This has been bumping around in my head for a bit, but I couldn't get the ending right, so the ending is a bit rushed.

Lilibet Cousland Theirin hated parties. Always had, always would. THIS party, unfortunately, was something of a requirement. As her ladies maid had put it - one does not simply ‘skip out’ on ones husbands name day festivities. Especially when ones husband happened to be the king of Ferelden, and especially a bare month after a Blight had devastated the Kingdom. 

On some level, she could understand that. On some level. That didn’t mean she had to like it though. Her forest green eyes roamed slowly across the room, taking in all of the idiocy that was Ferelden nobility. There - Teagan was attempting to look interested in what some Bann was saying far too animatedly. Even as she looked the poor man had to dodge a wildly swinging arm, and his eyes caught her own in a desperate plea. With an evil grin she shook her head, deep red curls bouncing against her shoulders. Her look said it all - if she had to grin and bear this, so did he. 

The air was redolent with the smell of those dishes that made Ferelden the joke of the culinary world. Alistair had argued long and hard for including Orlesian, Elven, and Dwarven dishes, but had been flatly overruled. 

“How can I claim to represent these people if I can’t even serve their food?” he’d stormed at the Lady who’d been given the honorable task of planning the Kings party. 

“I apologize my liege, but traditional Ferelden dishes are, well…. Traditional.” She’d retorted with some sort of magical, unflappable calm. 

Alistair had lost that argument, and Lili, having left half way through, hadn’t known of the loss till it was too late to reverse. At least she had Orlesian cakes to look forward afterwards, ordered specially for her by the cook. The thought made her smile. Drawn into her unhappiness, it took a moment before she realized that some Lady was buzzing into her ear. Luckily she’d long ago been taught by Fergus how to look interested even when she wasn’t listening. 

“….and of course the Plaidweave is all the rage in Orlais this season, but how garish! Can’t those ladies learn some proper decorum? I mean really..”

“Excuse me” Lilibet said, rather abruptly and not caring about the look of horror on the woman’s face. “Well, I never!” reached her ears as she moved through the room looking for Alistair. Or Eamon, because she knew that wherever the man was he’d likely be dragging her husband behind him. 

A muttered curse escaped her, drawing looks from the elder price of some Free Marcher city, who appeared to be quite preoccupied in trying to pry his younger brother away from one of Lili’s own ladies in waiting. She offered him a broad smile, all teeth and completely unapologetic. The young man merely grimaced and returned to his task. 

She didn’t particularly care who heard her mutter - she hated this dress. It was fitted on top, a high neck with long, flaring sleeves. The skirt was full, satin over layers of netting, with a long slit up one lag. The bone corset was loose by Orlesian standards, but it was still stifling, especially with the daggers she had concealed there. Guards were everywhere, but she trusted Alistair’s security to no one but herself. After all, she’d broken her own heart to keep him safe from the Archdemon. 

“Don’t go there” she mentally chided herself while slipping into an overlooked nook to take a deep breath.   
Just then, a distant sound reached her ears. Was it…. A scream? Lili cocked her head to the side, attempting to pick out any noises that were out of place, a difficult task what with the clinking of glasses, murmured conversation, and soothing, boring sounds of a lap harp. It came again, then faded. It was a scream. Lili couldn’t decide to smile at the interruption or frown at the fact that someone could be getting murdered within earshot. So she settled for hurrying away, down a servant’s hallway, the discovery of which had been a happy accident some weeks ago. She was growing to love the castle in Denerim as much as she had her own childhood home, but it was taking a while to learn all of the ins and outs, the secret doors, safe rooms, and passages. Because of this, the screams had faded by the time she reached the guest wing. 

Lili stopped as she skidded into the hallway, eyes darting back and forth. There - at the end of the corridor, where the main hall turned and went on towards the entry hall. She stepped up, lowering one hand to the dark red stains on the wall. Her fingers came away wet. She straightened, a grim look set upon her face. Grunting with the effort, she slid a dagger from beneath her too-tight corset, then another. Thus armed, she turned the corner. 

She wished she hadn’t. There, leaning against the wall, was what had once been an elven servant, a girl named Soria, if Lili remembered correctly. Her legs had been torn to ribbons, arteries and flesh flayed open, bleeding her life’s blood onto the polished marble floor. Lilibet leaned down, straining, hoping to hear the sound of breathing, however shallow. She could hear nothing. With a groan, and some difficulty, she straightened, frowning down at the floor. 

“What did this to you?” 

It was then that the screams started again. 

__________

Lilibet was dropping curses in three languages as she ran along the hallway, following both the sounds of screams and the swipes of blood that pointed her way. She was tearing at her dress frantically. She’d managed to saw through the corset as she ran, leaving the top of her dress looser, but the skirt, with its netting, was proving to be a challenge. Snick snick went her dagger, and the bottom part of the skirt fell away, leaving the ragged hem brushing her thighs. 

“Ooops….” She said, without any real regret at seeing the garment go. She’d just passed another unfortunate, a guest this time, when the cry echoed back to her. 

“Deepstalkers!! Deepstalkers in the palace! Guards, to the hall!!” 

Lilibet groaned, but she didn’t have to worry about the guards getting in her way. Most of them were far behind her, echoes of clanking metal and wordless shouts of urgency at her back. Rounding one last corner, she passed two more bodies before skidding into the great hall. 

“I must’ve been right behind them,” she muttered, eyes darting back and forth, frantically searching for Alistair. The short lizard-like things had begun on their feast, about 10 of them were darting here and there, biting those who were too slow to get away. The hall was in chaos, elegantly dressed ladies and gentleman running here and there, most fleeing for the exits. But where…..

“Lilibet!!”

Alistair had his sword out, and it looked as though he’d ripped one of the (decorative?) shields from the wall. Guards ringed him, but his face was contorted in rage as they tried to push him backwards. 

“No.” He shouted, “NO! What the blazes are you idiots doing? I can protect myself, but we can’t let them spread to the rest of the palace.”

A burning pain on her leg distracted Lili, and she cried out, striking behind her with her daggers as she dropped to one knee. Dimly she heard Alistair screaming her name, then ordering the hall doors locked. Pulling her daggers free, she rose, ignoring the searing pain. Another deepstalker, distracted from its meal, sprung at her, and she scythed her blades across. The thing split into two pieces, dropping with a wet thud to the floor. Lili took a step forward, and grimaced at the pain that shot up her leg. 

“If you can stand on it, you can fight on it, Lili.” She muttered to herself. She turned back. The deepstalkers were down to 8, but those were still causing havoc in the nearly deserted room. The loud bang of doors shutting all around reached her then, along with another hoarse shout from Alistair. She turned her head to find him, and was beyond happy to see his guards dragging him bodily from the room. 

“No, no, NO! I meant lock me inside you blasted sons of ogres! INSIDE, not OUTSIDE!! LILIBET!!”

His scream was cut off by the slam of the main door, and then Lilibet, along with about a dozen people, were trapped in the hall, with the deepstalkers. 

“We’re trapped.” 

She glanced to one side, and was somewhat surprised to see the younger prince she’d passed before standing at her back, a small dagger grasped firmly in one hand. Her lips curled into a feral smile, and she was pleased to see the prince shy away. 

“What you mean, dear, is that they’re trapped. We’re fine.” 

And with that she lunged forward, turning to slice at one of the creatures who’d been distracted by munching on a man’s leg. The thing fell away, and she was on to the next. Dimly, from the corner of her eye, she could see Trovan (She was pretty sure it was Trovan, anyway. Or maybe Thom. Or Taibos.) driving his dagger into a deepstalker that had one of her ladies’ maids by the ankle, tearing through the thin fabric of her slipper. A laugh, high, musical, was startled out of her, and she moved on to the next monster. 

______________________

“Open the door.” Said King Alistair Theirin, leveling a look at the commander of the palace guard. The man shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortably. 

“My liege, we cannot.” 

Alistair stepped forward, crowding the man, and leaned in, his face inches from the guards own. He could see the man swallow, and he suddenly seemed very, very nervous. 

“What do you mean ‘can not’? The doors are right there - you closed them. Are they locked from the other side? Is there something preventing the doors from opening?”

The unfortunate man shook his head, opening his mouth to speak, but Alistair cut him off.

“Then it is not that you ‘can not’ open the doors. It’s that you will not. That is a big difference. So tell me, captain, why you will not open the doors for your King. And before you answer - think carefully. Think very carefully, because my wife, your queen, is inside that room with several hungry deepstalkers, and I am very interested as to why you will not open the doors so that we may render aid.” 

The captain opened his mouth once again, and his voice, when at last he could push it past the lump in his dry throat, was hoarse. 

“My liege, we can not have you in there - if you were to be injured or killed there is no one-”

Alistair growled. That was enough. His left hand, the one holding the (hopefully not decorative, he was pretty sure it wasn‘t decorative anyway,) shield, shot out, and the sound of metal on metal rang through the corridor as he smashed the shield into his guard captains face. The man crumpled to the ground silently at his King’s feet, the edges of his helmet dented and askew. Alistair inspected the shield, dismayed to see a thin crack running along the length. Decorative then. Oh well. He pivoted, facing the rest of the guards that had hauled him out, and those who had joined them since. 

“Who is second in command here?” 

A nervous young man, all awkward youth, stepped forward, raising one gauntlet clad hand hesitantly. 

“I am Ser… I mean, my Liege.” 

“Very well,” Alistair said, attempting to paste on his most charming smile to set the kid at ease, “We are going in there to get my wife, and render what aid we may. Send someone to get the healers, because they’ll probably be needed.” 

A thin scream from behind the thick door interrupted him, making him blanch. That sounded like….No. Lilibet was unstoppable. A force of nature. Deepstalkers, even in a swarm, could never take her down. 

“Now, do any of you have a problem with this? And a word of advice. If you do - then shut up and stay out of the way.”

With that, the King of Ferelden whirled, and leveled a strong kick at the doors, forcing them open. 

The sight that greeted him was one that he never could’ve anticipated. A bare dozen people were draped around the room, helping each other up, and tying off their wounds, but that was not what drew his incredulous stare. There, seated upon table that had once held a visually and aromatically appealing array of dishes, was Lilibet, the Queen of Ferelden, with her dress sliced off around her thighs, one dagger clutched in a hand with a small cake covered with powdered sugar impaled on the tip. At her side, looking bemused and breathing a bit heavily sat Tullius, a younger Marcher prince whom Alistair had met briefly when he arrived the evening before. Lilibet’s right leg was coated in a sleeve of blood, and even as he watched she screamed again, high and thin, eyes closed and head thrown back. 

“Tully - you’ve got to try this one! There’s LEMON CRÈME in the middle!” 

“Really,” Said the young prince, a reluctant grin creeping over his face. “Well, your majesty, I do adore lemon crème, so why don’t you hand it over?”

At that, Lilibet sat up straight, opening her eyes wide, face morphing into a look of affronted horror. 

“Over my deepstalker desecrated corpse! Get your own, princeling!”

Alistair just stood there, mouth gaping, as she hopped off of the table, favoring her uninjured leg, and made her way over to him. He held his arms open almost automatically, and she limped into them, allowing her head to fall against his chest. A quick gesture to the wounded dispersed the guards crowded behind him, and, more importantly, took their attention off of the way Lilibet’s thighs looked, slicked with blood and freed from the confines of her once beautiful dress. 

“I thought you were dying, Lili.” 

His wife looked at him quizzically, one brow raised and green eyes questioning. 

“I was mad. They went after my desserts,” she muttered, then smiled, holding up the little cake she’d impaled on her dagger. 

“Lemon crème cake?”


End file.
